


A Morbid Practice

by VirtualNight



Series: So Many Fantrolls [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fantrolls, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VirtualNight/pseuds/VirtualNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The forest that Tasman lived in was not a safe one. Too many dangers lurked in its shadows, and that was clear by the number of trolls he found who had met unfortunate ends. After a while he started to feel that leaving them where they were wasn't right. He starts a graveyard to give them a proper final resting place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Morbid Practice

A cool wind caressed Tasman’s face as he threw the contents of his shovel into the neat rectangular hole before him. Rustling leaves drew his attention from the freshly dug earth, and he held out his arm expectantly. White wings carried his lusus down from the high branch, the odd raven alighting on his sleeve and hopping up to his shoulder.  
  
“Another grave?” Huginn articulated, his head tilted to look at the troll’s face. Though his voice had always been soothing to the purple-blood, it did nothing ease his sadness.  
  
Tasman gave a nod, the corners of his mouth turning down in a slight frown. It always made him sad to leave them out in the forest, at the mercy of the beasts and the elements. So every time he found the body of an unfortunate troll, he gave them a proper burial. The clearing had become a sizable graveyard by now, and he feared he may have to search for a new location if it got too crowded.  
  
He continued to fill the hole, not stopping until he was able to smooth the dirt over so that it was flush with the ground surrounding it. The shovel was swapped for a stone and a small blanket woven out of fresh wildflowers in his sylladex, and he knelt down to lay it over the head of the stranger’s final resting place. After placing the stone above it, he brushed the remnants of dirt from his hands and stood. A soft fragrance filled the air around him when the breeze picked up again. Flowers always seemed appropriate, despite the fact that he never knew these trolls.  
  
With a nearly inaudible sigh, Tasman turned to make his way home. Hopefully the next night would not find him here again.


End file.
